


Undercurrents

by Raikishi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Loss, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:46:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raikishi/pseuds/Raikishi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it’s not words you need.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercurrents

**Author's Note:**

> Written for trope bingo: poor communication skills  
> Actually it's more like a refusal to communicate on both ends

    What was it like in the 40s?  
  
    Did you really punch Hitler in the face?  
  
    Do you remember anything from the ice?  
  
    Have you tried Google yet? How ‘bout Wikipedia? Youtube? Facebook? Twitter?  
  
    Steve wants to scream; over and over until he can’t anymore. Acknowledging the anger only makes it worst, lets loose both rage and sorrow, overwhelming in its intensity, pouring out from somewhere he doesn’t dare examine too closely.  
  
    So he doesn’t.  
  
    Instead, he goes to the gym when it gets too much, when the thick block of anger rumbles too close to the surface, twitching his fingers until he’s visibly shaking to keep from putting his fist through a wall at SHIELD HQ.  
  
    He puts his fists against punching bags instead, over and over, splitting seams until the anger gives and the ghosts come. Until red bleeds out to black and grey, old memories passing before his eyes, ghosts rising up to great him. Until he can taste Peggy on his lips seconds, sweet and warm.  
  
    He can smell the fuel from Hydra’s plane, acrid as it burns his nose. He can feel the heat against his face when he makes the leap onto it, can feel the adrenaline in his blood, can feel anger and rage. And he’s going to make them pay, going to hunt them all down until there’s nothing left until–  
  
    And he has to stop then because he’s torn through another punching bag and instead of a heat and smoke and urgency all he has is a roaring silence and an endless expanse of sand.  
  
    It’s stupid to think that the exercise helps, foolish to think that he can burn away the anger and grief. The best he gets is a dull roar in his ears that’s halfway to numbness. The buzz beneath his skin never leaves, a constant presence at the very edge of awareness, low and dangerous but quiet for the moment.  
  
    And that has to be good enough because the other option is to sit down with a SHIELD psychiatrist and he’s had enough of professional indifference and carefully blank eyes. He’s had enough of them trying to coax answers from him he does not have. He’s tired of counting the tiles on the ceiling, tired of listening himself recount the day’s events as if it helps him cement himself in this reality in any way.  
  
    He’ll be fine, he tells himself, repeating the words over and over again like a mantra. And he is; at least for a little while. He shows up quickest when the Avengers alarm sounds, is the first on field when Fury sends him on missions out of the country and no one questions him because he’s Captain America, paragon of virtue.  
  
    It’s fine though.  
  
    He’s fine.  
  
    There’s color and noise and life all around him, brilliant and unmistakable, a sharp contrast to the darkness and silence. It’s great. He’s fine with it.  
  
    Until he’s not.  
  
    He comes backs to himself with his fist buried in the guts of a robot, his shield cast aside like a forgotten rag. There’s fear at first, a blunt bludgeon of terror deep in his gut as stares down at the mangled remains, his eyes replacing metal and wiring with organs and veins. At a distance, he hears himself choke on his breath, feels nausea and guilt rise up like acid.  
  
    Steve pulls away immediately, throws the thing aside into an enormous pile or parts he doesn’t quite remember making. He wonders briefly at the harsh, ragged sound of the wind as he looks around at the blank destruction before realizing it’s him. Something burns in the back of his throat, not quite a sob, not quite much of anything and he shoves it down with a vengeance.  
  
    It’s fine, he tells himself; thankful there’s no one around. No one to see him break.  
  
    He’s given them all orders, split the team up to better deal with the robots and thrown himself in the very center of it all. It’s fine.  
  
    It’s –  
  
    He turns into Iron Man, feeling his stomach drop as he comes face to face with the red and gold faceplate. Steve works pass the grimace, twisting it as best he can into stoicism and nods stiffly.  
  
    “Iron Man.”  
  
    “Captain,” the man comes back with and Steve waits for a minute, steadying himself for whatever is going to come his way.  
  
    “Hulk’s cleaning up the rest of these things,” Iron Man offers the moment Steve brushes pass.  
  
    Steve feels the tension loosen from his shoulders as Iron Man gestures at the robots, somehow managing to convey contempt despite the faceplate.  
  
    “Clean up crews on the way. Minimal injuries all around. Medics have arrived; Legolas is gettin himself patched up.”  
  
    There’s a strange twist in the last bit, the makings of a question.  
  
    Do you need to be checked out?  
  
    “I’ll go help with clean up.”  
  
    I’m fine.  
  
    And Iron Man lets it go, lets Steve turn his back on what he’s caused and lets him walk away.

* * *

  
  
    Tony Stark doesn’t.  
  
    Steve knew it was going to be a bad day the moment he woke up, gasping for breath in the same way he’d done so a lifetime ago. He’s out of bed before he can think, throwing back the covers and exchanging warmth for stinging cold. He fights down the twinge of fear at that as he prepares for his morning run.  
  
    The chill in the September air bites at exposed skin, brings the sleepy morning into sharper focus and he’s off immediately. He runs hard, barely capable of holding back when the sound of his feet pounding against the sidewalk echoes all around him like screams. He runs as if he’s chasing down the fleeting dream, chasing down a world gone.  
  
    He wants to feel a burn in his lungs, something to overpower all-consuming anger and bone-weary despair. He runs for something to keep him together in the midst of all this.  
  
    He needs to go faster and faster, has to shut down his mind…  has to… has to…  
  
    A horn blares sharply besides him, snaps him out of his thoughts as callously as a baseball bat to the head. Startling, he spins on his heels to find Tony Stark staring up at him from a shiny red convertible, brown eyes peering up at him over his sunglasses.  
  
    It hits him then with a force like ice, a sense of distance, enormous and gaping in the scant feet between them.  
  
    “Stark,” Steve greets, setting his jaw to fight down the despair.  
  
    His fingers curl into fists and he straightens, dons the Captain like a shield.  
  
    Understanding is the first to creep into Stark’s eyes and Steve keeps himself rigid, as if he were addressing a commanding officer, steels himself for the pity that will come with it. Instead he’s greeted by appraisal, slow and careful thought that’s nothing like the way the scientists had looked at him post-serum; there’s a softness in those brown eyes, concern that has nothing to do with Captain America, is reserved solely for Steve Rogers. And suddenly Steve can’t breath, can’t stop the sudden skip of hope because he has his hands full trying to hold back the thick surge of emotion that wells up within him. Finally, for the first time since he’s woken up there’s someone looking at him, actively searching out Steve Rogers and nothing else.  
  
    “Get in loser, we’re going shopping,” Tony remarks, flipping his glasses up as he looks straight ahead.  
  
    “I understood that reference,” Steve manages quietly as he slides into the front seat, feels a flutter in his stomach when Tony Stark gapes at him.  
  
    “You’re fucking kidding me,” Tony mutters, shaking his head in disbelief as he starts insulting Steve’s choice in movies.  
  
    The soldier can’t find it in him to roll his eyes as he slides into the passenger’s seat. There’s a thick block something heated in the back of his throat, only part hysteria. He cuts a glance at Tony, swallowing hard to force down the laughter and tears that rise up against the back of his mouth. The Tony Stark besides him, is a trembling wreck, tapping nervously on the steering wheel as he cuts glances at Steve. His mouth works on autopilot, spouting words Steve doesn’t pay attention to, doesn’t even need to because they’re unimportant, say nothing at all.  
  
    So Steve simply leans back, just … settling, for the first time in a long while, knowing there’s someone there to watch his back.  
  
    Because no matter what anyone says, Tony Stark with his artificial heart and his brash, indifferent mannerism, cares; cares so much that he needs a shield.


End file.
